


The Crippled Newspaper Boy

by ScottyMcDotty



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Pre-Strike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScottyMcDotty/pseuds/ScottyMcDotty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on The Little Match Girl. Crutchie finds himself desperately stuck in a snow storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crippled Newspaper Boy

“Extra, extra! Harsh weather continues for the third day!” Crutchie called. The few ears it did fall on were deaf to him. Who would care about the news in weather like this? The wind was strong, blowing flurries of snow and ice into the air which stung the back of Crutchie’s neck.

Usually in weather like this, when no one would be outside at all, the newsies would go door-to-door, to apartment buildings, shops, and shelters. But, and Crutchie hated to admit it, there was no way he’d be able to climb all the stairs up to peoples’ stoops or, even worse, their apartments. He’d tried once, years ago in weather just like this, and all he did was slip and fall on nearly every set of stairs. he was so battered and bruised the next day that even the Delancy’s didn’t give him any trouble.

When Crutchie had offered to walk the streets, everyone had given him a weird look. A look that said _Really? You sure?_ At the time, he didn’t even want anyone to go with him-- he didn’t on a normal day, why would he want someone today?-- but now he wished he wasn’t alone. The snow and ice made his eyes sting and, worst of all, made his leg ache. Everyone had always thought the gimp leg had given him one sixth sense with the weather, but he was really just figuring how much it hurt. He should have known the weather would be this bad-- he nearly woke up in tears.

His leg hurt so bad, sending waves of throbbing pain throughout his whole body, his throat was raw from yelling in the cold, and he felt ready to collapse. On top of all of that, he was pretty sure he was lost.

“I just gotta sit down,” he told himself, hoping to be comforted by the sound of his own voice, “I can’t be goin’ on this tired.”

Crutchie made his way into an alley, largely blind from the snow. The wind was blowing right between the buildings, creating something of a wind tunnel. The wind knocked Crutchie’s crutch off the air, sending the boy toppling into a pile of snow on the ground. “So I guess I’m sittin’ here,” he said, trying to feign some optimism. 

He sat up against a wall, so at least his back was safe from the wind. The wind made his ears burn, so he pulled his hat down further. His lungs ached from the cold, so he covered his mouth and nose with his ratty scarf. His leg hurt so bad, though… He couldn’t think of much else to do besides curl it up to his chin and try to wrap it in his jacket. It didn’t do much. It was just too cold. 

The sun had been all but erased by the snow and clouds, and it must have been setting. It was getting so dark, so cold. Crutchie tried to make a fist to get the blood flowing back into his hands, but they were so stiff from the cold, it didn’t help much at all. He stuck his hands in his pockets, hoping to find done piece of warmth. It didn't help much, but he did find something else. 

A matchstick. He thought for a second. He didn't smoke, why would he have a match? It took him a second but he remembered, right before he head out for the day, that Race had cryptically put it into Crutchie's hand with a gentle shake of his head. 

He felt like the match was a gift from God (not necessarily meaning Race was godly). He was about to light it, but he stopped himself. What warmth would a match make? The sense of defeat was suffocating. 

Although he had momentarily resigned himself to freezing to death, a thought came to his head. He pulled his bag onto his lap and thumbed through his papes. He had eight left. He'd given one out to a nun, and sold one to someone who was scurrying home. She hadn't even read the paper-- just used it to cover her head. Crutchie had made only a penny, all day. Was he really about to burn away the rest of his income?

He almost wouldn't do it. He almost couldn't bring himself to burn away eight cents, but who was going to be buying papers in this weather? A biting cold wind that stung his eyes was the final straw. He turned his back to the wind and took one of his papes from his bag. He’d only need one, he thought. Just to warm his hands back up.

He turned the match over in his hand. Why had Race even given it to him? Did he somehow now Crutchie was going to end up here? It didn’t really matter in the long run. Crutchie struck the match on the wall next to him and brought the flame to the first paper. It almost broke his heart seeing the paper light up; but it was so warm. He rest the burning paper on another pape, so at least the fire wouldn’t get to him while he rest in on his lap. He held his hands over the fire, and the warmth gave them new life. He flexed his fingers and let his mind wander.

Being a newsie sucked sometimes. Being a crippled newsie was even worse sometimes. Everyone else could walk all over the city to sell papes and then skip rope and run around after work. Crutchie always stood on the corner, hawking out headlines and getting pity tips. And now look where that got him-- sitting in an alley lightning newspapers on fire just to keep the blood in his fingers.

The first pape had almost burned out. The one under it was too wet to catch on fire. Crutchie looked at his hands. They were still grossly pale. Maybe just one more…

What difference is two cents at this point? He lit it up.

Some things weren’t too awful about being a newsie. He had a lot of friends. He was particularly close to Romeo and his little gang of the younger newsies. Really, none of the newsies seemed to dislike him. They liked his optimism, and Crutchie often wondered if they knew it was sometimes fake. Even the Delancy’s honored Crutchie’s attitude and often went easier on him. But nothing compared to Crutchie’s best friend, Jack. Jack had been the one to pick Crutchie up off the street and introduce him to selling papes. 

The next pape went out. If there was ever a time to give up, it was three papes in. In a sudden wave of frustration, Crutchie dumped the whole bag of papers out and crushed them into a single pile on the ground in front of him. They all caught fire from the one on the bottom, and they erupted into a beautiful fire so big Crutchie could feel the warm flames on his face.

He sighed leaned his shoulder against the wall. His cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire. It reminded him of the stories Jack would tell him about Santa Fe. It probably wasn’t snowing in Santa Fe.

Crutchie closed his eyes and imagined Santa Fe spanning out in front of him. It almost seemed so real he could touch it. Beautiful, dry desert lined with railroad tracks as far as the eye could see. A sun so big and yellow that everything was lit in vivid colors. The air was clean and warm-- it didn’t sting his nose and make it bleed; it was thick and easy to breathe.

He imagined his life with Jack in Santa Fe. They’d get hired to lay rails, Jack always said, but Crutchie would get to relax. Jack always said a couple of months of fresh air and he could throw his crutch away. The doctors always suggested fresh air. Crutchie would lay in the sun and just breathe in the air until Jack came home, then they would ride their twin palomino horses down to the Rio Grande and swim and cool off. Crutchie could practically feel the water wash over him as he laid back on the surface and floated in the water. No one in Santa Fe cared about gimp legs; they only cared about dreams.

And what a dream Santa Fe was…

\--

“Crutchie!” Jack called, running down the streets. “Crutchie! _Crutchie!_ ”

“Jack, we ain’t gonna find him!” Race tried to tell him. “We’re gonna freeze to death before we find him!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack suddenly turned on his heel to get up in Race’s face, using the height difference to his advantage. “We don’t leave no one behind, especially not Crutchie.” 

Race was about to argue, but he stopped himself and sighed before calling out for Crutchie.

It had been too long since Crutchie left, and it was unlike him to be out long at all. The second the sun started to go down, Jack rallied the boys together for a search party. His fingers and toes were going numb, but all he could focus on was finding his friend. 

The newsies weren’t faring too well. Specs’ classes had gotten caked in snow, and with his bad eyesight, it didn’t look much different when he took them off. He linked arms with Romeo just to avoid getting separated. Albert’s eyes had started to water and he could swear the tears were freezing on his temples. Still, all of them pushed through, calling for Crutchie up and down the streets. 

“Hey, Jack!” Someone called. The way the wind carried the voice, it took Jack a minute to find the source. Henry was at the opening of an alley, staring into it. “I think I found him.”

Barely eve processing the words, Jack prepared himself for the worst and hurried around the corner. He fell to his knees in front of the snow-coated mass. There was a crutch against the wall, and that was the only indicator that it was Crutchie until Jack brushed the snow from his face. A pile of wet ashed sat on the ground between Crutchie’s legs, and his hands were a ghostly white.

“Crutchie!” Jack slapped Crutchie’s face a couple times, “Crutchie, c’mon, wake up.”

Jack moved in close, shaking Crutchie a little. His heart bounded against his ribs, and worry worked it’s way into his muscles. He still yelled Crutchie’s name, trying to avoid thinking of how much like a corpse Crutchie looked.

Finally, Crutchie’s white-dusted eyelashes started to quiver before weakly opening. “Jack?” he coughed, “What are you doin’ out here? You’ll catch a cold in this weather.”

Jack was stunned for a second, but he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He pulled his friend into a hug and called to the newsies behind him, “He’s alright, boys! He’ll be just fine!”


End file.
